Carry On
by alirodina
Summary: some years after the war, heero confesses his sins


Fan Fiction: Carry On

Fan Fiction: Carry On

Shrieking Shack

_Believe in the light of tomorrow, grab on to my hand and carry on…_

The man in faded blue jeans walked across the garbage-strewn courtyard purposefully, his face unreadable. The sun was high enough in the cloudless sky so that there were no shadows, save for a small patch right under the large oak tree by the gates. The man barely gave this more than a passing glance as he went on.

The distance from the diminutive gates to the church was not a particularly distant one, but the man felt otherwise. He could not tell if he would have preferred it farther or closer, however. He had not planned that much ahead.

_We just bumped shoulders and brushed past each other,_

_Each in our own way searching for tomorrow,_

The doors to the church were closed, but the man was not headed there. He looked around the yard slowly, eyes screwed up against the bright glare of the noonday sun. There was another building by the far side of the yard which he took for the convent. Its recently painted white door was open, revealing the dark hallways inside in a manner that made the man think of a giant's mouth, open in a lazy yawn. He made for the convent with unhurried steps, like he did not really want to go there.

_When will we meet again?_

_I search for you in my dreams,_

He was a meter or so from the smaller building when an old woman in black habit bustled through the front door, preceded by a rake and a broom.

Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the man's presence in the otherwise deserted yard. But not suspiciously so. "Yes, son?"

The man thought on it for a moment. "I was looking for the priest," he said.

"He's in the church," the nun quipped, her tone suggesting that he should have known that.

"The church is closed," the man said.

"It is opened only for services," she told him. Golden dust rose from the unevenly laid out tiles as she swept the yard. "Try the back doors."

"Thank you," he said, leaving.

As you face the winds

_and I could see your back becoming smaller in the distance…_

_Good luck and Good-bye. _

It was dark in the church. And the still air smelled faintly sweet, somewhat old. A remembrance of past grandeur, hinting at old secrets. The man went down the aisle quietly, feeling uneasy. Walking there, the sound of his footsteps thrown back at him by the vaulted ceiling, felt wrong. But then again, the whole business was.

He did not want to call out to the priest, but the church was big enough to make searching tedious. So he did, finally, his voice sounding different in that expectant emptiness. He was glad of the distorting echoes, suddenly, because his voice had not been steady when he said the other's name.

"Yes?" His voice had not changed. Not much, anyway. The man wanted to turn away and run. "Who's there?"

"It's me," _Come here, _the man wanted to say. But he settled for 'Bastard'.

The door at the left side of the altar- that which led to the small room where the priests and laity would put on their vestments- opened. "Who…" The voice sounded irritated.

And then, "You?"

_Only meeting and parting, again and again, _

_But until you find the answers, carry on._

"What do you want?" the priest asked, sounding tired.

The man looked at the long brown waves trailing down the priest's thin shoulders, at the silver cross that hung from his neck, and finally, the accusation in his violet blue eyes. "You haven't changed."

"You have," the priest said, with the same sunny smile that the man remembered. "Or you wouldn't be saying that. You wouldn't even be here."

"Perhaps," said the man. "I came to confess."

"Do you need it?"

"Everyone does."

"Not really. It's a personal decision, after all," The priest pointed at the confessional by the right wing of the church. "Some people think that a private reconciliation with Him is enough. Most, however, would rather hear another human's voice- from someone warm and breathing, like them, to reassure them of salvation."

"What do you believe?" The man waited as the priest stepped into the small brown space, closing the door behind him, shutting him out. Then he went to kneel on the fading green cushion placed on the cold marble floors for that purpose.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. I am here to say what people want to hear."

_Although not hard enough to hurt, _

_He bites his lip, staring off into the distance,_

_His heart hidden…_

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he said the words in Latin. It was not a language he was comfortable with, the language of men who burned the innocent for witchcraft. He stopped.

"Tell me,"

"It has to do with cowardice, you see," the man said, finally. "A sin of omission, perhaps. That I have never had enough courage to do it."

"Do what?" The priest's tone was kind. Was he laughing? The man could not tell. He had been given a time, years ago, when he could have listened to that voice and known its owner's every hidden emotion. He had not thought it mattered.

"Help him, help myself, too, come to that."

"Help? You have refused somebody in trouble?"

"In a way,"

_I know it's up to me to fulfill my own dreams,_

_So, to that smile of yours that lives again in my heart…_

_Good luck and Good-bye._

"I wanted to make up for it," the man admitted.

"Sometimes we only know the value of what had been given us when it has been taken away," the priest said, his voice muffled by the thick and dusty screen that divided them. Sin and Sanctity. "But every loss and every blow taken is every lesson learned. I said you had changed. And you have."

"You too,"

"It's a long path," that was an off hand remark. It was not normal to talk to a priest like that, not in the confessional.

"Perhaps I never knew you."

"Perhaps. You never thought it important before," The priest was laughing. "Knowing people is not your thing, actually."

"It's too late."

"Nothing can be too late unless we're all dead." The priest retorted. "_Ego te absolvo…"_

"Do _you_ forgive me?"

Silence…

"Yes, yes… I believe I do. That makes you happy?"

"Perhaps."

The wooden shutters slid forward with a slight thud, hiding the priest from the man's view.

_Believe in the light of tomorrow, grab on to my hand and carry on_….

# The italicized words are taken from _Good Luck and Good Bye_, as sung by Toshihiko Seki for Duo Maxwell's image song. I've changed some things in it, but that's because it seemed to fit the Japanese words better.

I offer this story to the Ended.


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